to the rhythm of ancient sea
by Ms-Deunan
Summary: He stands deep in wild grass watching jeweled insects dance about and feels like he has rested an eternity as gentle breeze brings the fresh scent of spring. A preHogwarts drabble about The Boy Who Lived doing so a second time; implied child abuse.


**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter (the character and series) belong to J. K. Rowling. I receive no currency but for reviews.

**Warnings**: Heavily implied child abuse and character death. Mild H/Hr (so vague you'd need specialized shipper glasses,) also preHogwarts.

Please see end notes.

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The world is green.

Green brush and blue sky, it is golden grass and little red flowers. It's pretty. Calm. Peaceful. He has no idea how he ended up in the field. Thinks, perhaps, it is a dream. The best one he has had, to be sure. He isn't cold. He isn't hungry. The air is fresh, moving with wind dancing through grass soft on bare feet. While the sun is harsh -bright, brilliant- on eyes used to long periods of half-light, it is _amazing_. He doesn't know how long he stands, waist deep in wild grass watching jeweled insects fly about. Feels like his knowledge of time is stretched and he lives there longer than his handful of child's years spent in Other.

The Other Place.

His world is invaded. An upright shadow climbs a gentle slope to where he is now frozen, hands unmoving in their splayed-out position touching the fuzzy tops of a nearby flower. He is afraid now. It is as an old sock, worn too often and molded to his very shape. He draws himself in, slowly. He does not hope to be passed by, merely waits. He had known this eternal spring had been too good, too perfect. Even in a dream.

It is more man than figment, closer than he would like but no farther than he predicted. Its voice is soothing male, says: "Hello, son."

He's not to talk, to strangers, to adults.

He is a waif with a freakish scar.

"Do you know where you are?"

Unimportant.

"Is this a place you've seen afore?"

He is to be a fixture left to tarnish and collect dust.

"Harry?"

He has learned the lesson well and does not respond. Not until called upon. He fumbles for a moment as anxiety twists in his stomach, settles with a quiet, "sir?"

"It's beautiful here, so warm."

Only it isn't, not anymore, and while it lacks the dramatic shift to blistering winter a change is made all the same. There is more wind, it is sharper, colder. There is a charge to the air and there is a scent of clouds heavy with rain, of wet earth. He doesn't move, he doesn't shuffle on bare feet sinking now into spongy ground, he doesn't rub his exposed arms.

"It's quite wondrous, Harry. This place. Not often am I witness to such splendor of human heart. A place to while hours away, waiting for your half to arrive." Its voice had the tone Harry used when he once shared a meal with Tulla. Coaxing and soft. It had taken months of trying to win back the squirrel his Uncle scared away.

He doesn't like to think of how he failed Tulla, at the end.

"Do you wish to stay here, son?"

He says nothing.

"Do you wish to wait?"

He says nothing, because he has also learned well the lesson of lying. He tires. How he does try to get the words out, but acidic bile chokes them down. It is hard to breathe, to inhale the fragrance of miraculous growing things. He wants, he so wants to stay here in this painted field with everything his room has not. He tries to lie, for he is not to speak of things he wants.

It seems to be answer enough.

The man nods once, says: "Alright, son. Stay as you wish. The choice is yours, as always. As promised."

It takes forever for him be alone again, but then he is and greedily does he drink in the land and sky. He wants to exist as he had, undisturbed and secure. He tries to force himself into the peaceful echo of what he remembers upon opening his eyes to this place. In the stillness he is given chilled flesh grows warm, for the sun is once more unhindered in its aim and power. It is only as he thinks himself burning does a breeze play with messy hair and too large clothes. He does nothing but breathe in, and out, and in again the clean season of renewal.

When he has his fill he moves, toes squishing in mud before catching on solid ground. There is more to hear now than insect wings. Bird song and chittering wildlife. His eyes catch, for a moment, on the branches across the way as two squirrels play tag. He thinks of Tulla and there she is, jumping and twisting her way towards them.

He is happy in this and finds himself continent for long moments of being, of seeing and feeling. He thinks the day should be turning to night soon, though, and wonders where he should go when it does.

It is to the forest his attention is once more drawn. There between ancient trunks is a face, smiling. It is the first thing he notices. Slowly it resolves into another figure, a shade of mist or fog. He doesn't know if he wants any other being beyond Tulla and her lot, but this new creature continues to form without direction.

It is a girl, he reasons, for there is quite a bit of hair on her head and it is everywhere. She doesn't come to him, is instead waiting with a hand out with invitation. She's familiar in the way he could differentiate his lost friend from her two playmates. Harry knows her too despite the alien nature of this, their first meeting.

_Well_, he can hear in the way her fingers wiggle, _come on then._

She is smiling at him, even when he stays in the field. Even as she drops her hand and turns away. Her shoulder says: _alight then._

He thinks that will be the end of the girl, but she merely sits on the ground as if to wait. Something orange takes her eyes from him, commands her attention fully with a mewwr.

Harry waits as well. He will stay until the sky colors and then, if the girl is there still, he will ask her what to do.

On the other side of the field, down sloping hill, a wooden skiff bobs in shallow water. It is tethered with old magics to a standing stone, ancient and carved by design. Here, too, is the figure of once-man. A strange chap shrouded in layers black gossamer that are never quite perceived by the living. He is humming a lullaby, something wonderfully new, and idly manipulating a copper coin across bone knuckles.

Everything here is waiting it seems, on the inevitable.

When the boy wakes next, his body is healed of all mortal wounds. There are five more scars to his back, shiny and pink. They are the only markings of a heavy hand gone too far. Harry James Potter is, once more, the Boy Who Lives.

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**End Notes:** this fic was based off of reptilia28's challenge that had (1) Harry die in a battle with Voldemort, (2) Hermione Granger as his soul's mate, (3) an officer of Death needing anger-management classes, and (4) what appears to be a demonically possessed contract enabling re-life with all past memories intact. 'Based off', see. I focused on a scene before Death goes a bit mad.

Comments and criticism welcomed.


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